By Christopher Klemeck
Every September, there is a little gathering in the upper Hudson River Valley, near a small creek that was called Batten Kill by Dutch settlers. There on the lawn of a colonial Quaker Meeting House amid beautiful fall colors these people celebrate an event that took place one in September long ago, in the year of 1777…
At that time, a war raged in those parts, as the late summer heat retreated and fall colors gave chase, soon to hold the field. Armies, loosely composed of slaves, mercenaries, farmers and their Indian allies, fought for control of the wooded terrain. Platoons of hungry men swarmed over the dirt turnpikes and forest trails that crisscrossed the countryside. Many a boy soldier of foreign tongue was interred in that same blood-soaked soil, thousands of miles from the warm home fires of his birthplace in England, Africa, Germany or France. The bitter smoke that filled those evening skies rose instead from the fires of military camps, and the burning of farms and fields at harvest time.
Amidst all of the fighting and destruction, the local farmers were afraid. After all, civilians were being killed, either by accident or on purpose. The Governor said it was unsafe to stay, so many fled -- many, but not all. One small group of farmers refused to leave their homes. They were called Quakers, or Friends, and they steadfastly refused violence for any purpose. They believed that pure Love was inside all people, and trusted in this faith to protect them from the war.
Many of those Quakers had been sailors in New England, but when the seas became too warlike, they sought peace on these farms. Friends had built a rough log meeting house where they sat in silence, trying to hear the messages of Love deep inside them. But sadly, war followed them here, too. Yet this time, instead of fleeing, the Quakers decided to stay put—not to fight, but to live as they pleased. The Governor said they were crazy and warned that he could provide no protection from the warriors if they insisted on staying. But they continued to work on their farms and meet regularly for worship. And, sure enough, one day, just as they were doing that, a small group of warriors arrived at the Quaker meeting house.
As mentioned, the countryside was swarming with all manner of soldiers. This particular band of scouts included Indians who spoke Canadian French. Like many Indians, they were not happy about the war that broke out between the British King and his own people an ocean away. They were not eager to kill or die for either side. But the war had come to Indian country, and the Indians felt they had to fight for their own survival. Though they were certainly friends with some whites (like the better missionaries and traders), other whites had done many terrible things to Indians. Indians had reasons to be very suspicious, even bitter for revenge. So they joined the King’s armies, and by the time they arrived at this Quaker meeting, they had already captured one prisoner and taken several scalps.
Coming out of the woods, the Indians approached the tiny log cabin with great care, thinking it might be some sort of trap. Yet as they peered inside, through the gaps between the logs, the Indians found something sympathetic in the Quaker ceremony, reminiscent of the longhouse where Indians sat to discuss important matters and worship the Great Spirit. Still unsure what to make of these people who sat silently with their children, apparently without weapons to protect themselves, the Indian leader entered the doorway.
Some of the Quaker children had seen the Indians through the windows and were very scared. The truth was that the Indians purposely dressed to look fierce: they carried deadly weapons, guns, knives and arrows, and were painted for war. The Quakers had decided to stay in the war zone despite all warnings, but now suddenly they had to face their first real encounter with warriors and the desire to run, or even to fight in self-defense was nearly overwhelming.
And so for a long moment the Indians and the Quakers stared at each other in silence. Both groups were unsure what would happen next, and strained to figure out what to do. Who would make the next move—and what move would it be? For the Quakers, the easiest thing to do would be to run, to yell, to fight. For the Indians, the easiest thing would be to kill these strange people and be done with it. But instead they both did the most difficult thing of all: Each held their fears and suspicions and gave the other a chance to behave differently than they expected.
The Indian scout did not want to kill. He made a gesture with his arms, to ask if there were any guns in the room. A Quaker man shook his head no. After some attempts, both men realized that they could speak French together, and the Quaker man explained that they were praying. The scout began to relax. Perhaps he would not have to kill anyone today. He gestured to the others that everything was okay.
Seeing this, several Quakers rose to their feet and extended the traditional Quaker gesture of friendship: a handshake. Gradually, the rest of the Quakers and the Indians came close together. One scout asked if there was any food to eat. So, a Quaker man took everyone to his farmhouse and shared all he had managed to hide from the armies. Then, together, they broke bread. Afterwards, the Quakers and the Indians bid each other a solemn farewell and departed. What became of them afterwards, we cannot say.
In the end, this is a simple story. Not very much happens in it—at least not much in the traditional sense of dramatic events. But something amazing did happen: On that particular day, during a time of war, some white settlers and some Indian warriors—representatives from two groups that had often been in conflict—consciously decided not to fight or kill, and thereby saved each other instead. Through a fragile shared trust, both groups were able to seize upon, momentarily, the hope for an alternative way of being together, in the American woods.
Ever since, a feather has symbolized this vision, because Indians were sometimes known to place some mark like a feather over the door of people they wanted to protect, as a sign of peace. Maybe there was no feather on this particular day, or maybe it was a broken arrow the Indians left behind, over the door of the Quaker meeting house. Maybe these events didn't happen at all like this. But even an imaginary feather, drifting across time on words and pages, like autumn leaves carried by the wind, can be blown very far indeed and be picked up as a sign of hope, just as intended.
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